


Loa in Las Vegas

by jebbypal



Category: CSI: Las Vegas, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-14
Updated: 2006-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jebbypal/pseuds/jebbypal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zombies in Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trekkim](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Trekkim).



> Written for Trekkim for the spn_gen ficathon who asked for zombies and a crossover with CSI: Las Vegas.  
> No disrespect for any religion is intended. An idea of how to explain some canon came to me and I went with it. Explanations and definitions of Vodun terms are given at the end of the story.

"Stay in the car," Dean ordered. He just held up a hand when Sam started to protest. "Look, I don't want to argue this, okay? In there might be one bad bokor and I'd like to know that the car is running if there's trouble."

Sam glared at him. "I guess I should be touched that you trust me enough to leave the keys."

"Damn straight. Esmee seemed convinced that our man Galtry would be out of the house tonight. I'll be twenty minutes, tops. Honk if anything happens."

"Scream like a girl if you need backup," Sam said as he shut the door.

"Jackass," Dean said as he approached the house. He wasn't keen on trying the front door - or any of the doors. If Galtry was a strong enough bokor to zap seven people and force them to kill themselves, he'd have covered the easy entrances with some nasty wards.

Fortunately, the chimney jutted out from the grey stucco ranch house just enough to provide him leverage up to a second floor window. "I knew I'd been living right," Dean said when he found that the window was unlocked. Seconds later, he rolled into the room with his gun ready.

Unfortunately, it looked like the bokor had gotten there first. Destin Galtry had already blown the back of his head out in the middle of his bedroom. At least Dean's luck had held and he'd avoided actually rolling into any of the gore.

Grimacing, he began to quickly look around the room. From the wetness of the blood, he guessed he and Sam would have heard the shots if they'd been ten minutes earlier. Which meant the cops would be arriving any minute if Galtry had any law-abiding neighbors.

In the hall outside of the bedroom, Dean found what he was looking for in a small alcove – Galtry's hand carved wooden altar. A white cloth protected the wood from the four rough rocks at each corner of the altar. On the altar rested a clear glass bowl of water and a lit candle in a glass candle holder full of what appeared to be sand. The walls above the altar were decorated with several pictures that Dean guessed would have born a striking resemblance to Destin Galtry before he ate a bullet. But nothing on the altar smacked of hoodoo or any of the darker sides of Vodun.

Back to square zero.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spotted a flash of red and blue coming through one of the windows at the front of the house. "Dammit, Sammy, I told you to honk," Dean said before carefully making his way back to the window he'd entered. Balancing, he struggled to pull the window shut from the outside. "Mother.." he bit out when he caught his left hand under the pane when it finally squeaked downward.

He dropped the rest of the way to the ground below and stuck to the shadows of the house as he edged to the front. "Fuck," Dean said when he saw the cop cars between him and the Impala. His cursing grew more colorful when the overweight detective cuffed Sam and pushed him into one of the cars.

Fortunately, the cops were distracted with dealing with both Sam and Galtry's house. Dean crouched low to the ground and ran as fast as he could to the east. He'd noticed a rusted Ford Focus when they'd entered the housing development. A chick car, but one he should be able to hotwire with no problem. Dean breathed a silent _thank you_ when he found the car was unlocked.

Five minutes later, he was driving by Galtry's house just as the cruiser containing his brother pulled out. A second cruiser pulled out directly behind him and nixed his preferred plan for breaking Sam out.

Fine, he'd just have to follow the cops and find out which station house they took his brother to. Then he'd throw Esmee on this problem as he continued to track down the bokor that had now caused eight suicides.

The drive seemed endless, especially as Dean had to keep readjusting the seat. Whoever's car this was, they were short. And carried around a lot of kids with sharp playthings, he thought as he dug out another figurine with sword from beneath him.

"What the hell? Come on, Sammy, tell me you didn't try to fight five cops on your own," Dean said when he noticed the cruiser turning into St. Mary's Hospital.

He quickly drove the car past the emergency entrance and found a handicapped spot facing it. His gut roiled and he suddenly felt very alone when he saw his brother being physically pulled from the car and then arranged onto a stretcher. He was too far away to tell for sure, but Dean couldn't see any obvious blood. Worse, he couldn't see Sam fighting or helping the officers and ER attendants.

* * *

 

Sam looked out over the darkness, but he couldn't see much other than black and then the edge of the water in front of him. He seemed to be on a small sandy island of some sort, which didn't make any sense at all. The last thing he remembered, he'd been in Las Vegas in the Impala.

He shivered a bit. Being surrounded with water, the air was getting chilly. He wondered how long until the sun came up. And where Dean was. And how the hell he ended up alone in this place. He was definitely throwing this in his brother's face the next time Dean told him to stay in the car.

Sam sneezed. Oddly, the air smelled of cigar smoke. He couldn't see any light, and there wasn't any vegetation that could be burning anyway. He shook his head and sat down to wait.

Shivering, he hoped he wouldn't have to wait long.

* * *

 

Dean pulled up in front of Esmee's house in the borrowed Ford Focus. His skin itched at the ugliness of the car. At least, that's what he told himself. It wouldn't have anything to do with the nagging feeling in his gut that his brother had just been turned into a zombie.

They'd gotten the call from Esmee shortly after she'd found out about her father's death. As the houngon for Las Vegas's Vodun community, he'd been worried when there were three suicides within his congregation. Three suicides of successful, happy people with no outward problems. He'd expressed his concerns to Esmee, his only remaining family, but at that time, he'd still been in denial that someone within the tight knit Vodun community of Las Vegas would be targeting their brethren.

After two more deaths, her father had told her that he'd put in a call to a John Winchester who had helped a mambo in New Orleans many years back. Unfortunately, he kept getting a voice mail. Still, it was enough information that when Esmee heard of her father's death she was able to call John Winchester. And then his son, Dean.

It had taken Dean and Sam three days to reach Las Vegas after leaving Minnesota, which had landed them smack dab in the middle of the houngon's funeral wake. After getting a list of the dead from Esmee, Sam had hit the public records while Dean attempted to talk to relatives and friends. The results had been the same, time after time. The deceased had been fine until they withdrew a little bit and stopped talking to friends and family. Everyone assumed it was just a bad week and ignored it. Four days later, the victim committed suicide in some fashion. Driving their car into the Grand Canyon, hanging, slit wrists - all very intentional suicides.

Then Esmee had told Dean about Galtry. About how he kept asking people if they were sure they didn't want to sell their house. How all the houses were in the same area and surrounded the home of Esmee's father. He'd been their only lead and now the investigation was as dead as Galtry.

The sky was just pinking on the east horizon. Time was moving too fast and he had a lot to do. There's no telling how long he had to get back to the motel room before the cops started poking around. But first, he had a bone to pick with Esmee.

He banged loudly on the side door of the plain brick building. The first floor was a Creole restaurant that Esmee's father had operated, but the upstairs contained a bedroom off to the side of one of Las Vegas's larger Vodun temples. Yesterday had been the denye priye, the last day of the nine-day wake for her father. He knew that Esmee hadn't slept much during the ceremonies and long gathering. Many of the mourners wanted to catch up with the dead houngon's daughter who had left her family behind for New York City and law school.

Several minutes later, when the horizon was turning red and yellow, the door opened to reveal Esmee. Her robe and lack of wig over her short black curls proved that he'd woken her. Dean clamped down on his frustration. He needed her; he didn't know anyone else in Las Vegas. He couldn't help but wish that she'd been more familiar with the members of the temple or that the people at the funeral hadn't been so suspicious of him and Sam. Then again, he supposed he'd be suspicious of strangers if it had been the seventh funeral in two months that he'd attended.

"Did you stop him?" Esmee demanded as she opened the door.

Dean shook his head. "Gatlry wasn't behind it. In fact, Galtry's dead."

Esmee's dusky skin paled at the news.

"Oh, but wait, it gets worse. The cops have Sam. And they've taken him to the hospital. I'm pretty sure that whatever happened to the others is happening to him. So you know, if a light bulb has come on and you suddenly know who the fuck is behind this, I'd love to hear it right now!" She backed away at his outburst and he immediately felt guilty. "Look, I'm sorry. I've had four hours sleep in the past forty eight and most of our research just got impounded. I just need-" he stopped when his phone vibrated. He pulled it out and swallowed when he saw Sam's name as the caller.

He knew what the call was; he just really hadn't expected it quite so soon. ICE, in case of emergency. He'd thought his brother was such a dork to have that listed on his phone while he was nice and safe in college. But now, he was eternally grateful. He turned away from Esmee and prepared to lay on the bullshit as thick as he could. An idea had come to him on the drive over from the hospital.

"Sammy, it's about damn time," Dean said, careful to sound relieved.

"I'm sorry, to whom am I speaking?" a woman's voice asked.

"David," Dean lied. "Wait, don't tell me, Sam _lost_ his phone at the casino again. The kid would lose his head if it wasn't tied on."

"Not quite," the woman replied. Her accent was Californian, but for once, Dean was too worried about his brother to wonder if she was cute or not. "What's your relationship to Samuel Winchester?"

"I'm his brother-in-law. And you better tell him that his new wife is pretty upset with him. She doesn't enjoy being left for the craps table on the first night of her honeymoon."

"Actually, Mr. Winchester is currently at St. Mary's Hospital."

"Sammy's been hurt? What happened?" Esmee was now standing beside him. He shrugged her hand off his shoulder.

"We're uncertain. It would be helpful if we could talk to you and his wife."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. It would take him time to prepare the documents. And Esmee had sure as hell better agree to the plan. "Umm, yeah, sure. We'll be there when visiting hours start," he answered before thumbing the phone off. He couldn't handle any probing questions right this second.

Esmee apparently couldn't tell that. "What happened to him? What's going on?" she demanded.

Dean closed his eyes and leaned against the door for a second. He'd like to rest, but he didn't have time. "I don't know; you're going to have to find out. Where's your computer?"

* * *

 

Sam could feel her. He swore he could almost smell her perfume. He rose and started to walk toward the source of the smell, but suddenly a man in a black top hat stood in front of him with his hand on Sam's chest. Sam knocked it away and went to go around him, but the thin black man matched him step for step.

"No, man, you don't want to go that way," the figure said, his words a thick Creole patois.

Cigar smoke choked out the sweet smell of perfume, flowers, and cookies causing Sam to look at the man more closely. Initially, the man had seemed bigger than life, but he was actually several inches shorter than Sam. The hat and its purple feathers simply made up the difference. The cigar hung from a pleasant smile and Sam couldn't help but think the man was familiar.

"Yeah, man, you know me. You just don't want to. No worries though. You won't be going anywhere without my say so."

Sam remembered Dean, Las Vegas, and Esmee. "Wait a second, where are we? Who are you?"

"Just think of me as the Baron and this as my land. Some people got a little over excited and you got lost. But you do what old Ghede says, and you won't get any more lost. Smoke?" Ghede asked.

Sam knew he was missing something. Something important. But he was tired and it was nice to have some company. "No, thanks. I don't smoke," he answered as he sank back down onto the sand.

His eyes were heavy and as he drifted off to sleep, he heard woman's voice speaking with an Irish accent. "Yeah, Mama, I'll keep a watch over the boyo. You just keep the bed warm for me," he heard Ghede reply.

* * *

 

Esmee went down to the restaurant to gather some food for a semblance of a meal while Dean worked on producing a fake marriage certificate. The past week had been difficult and the lack of oversight of the restaurant showed in the meager offerings still available. Another item to add to her list of things she still needed to attend to for her father. She'd ignored matters of the estate and business in favor of her religious obligations and trying to find the person who killed her father. Because no matter what the coroner said, she knew her father would never commit suicide. And if he did, hanging would not be how it happened.

No, if he truly wanted to die, all he had to do was ask Ghede to take him.

As she cooked a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, she was surprised by how distracted she was by Dean's plan. He'd already trapped himself in the lie that Sam was married so he was preparing a certificate to say that on the day after her father was buried, Esmee had married his brother.

Insane.

But she had a feeling that that word aptly described most of the Winchester family.

Carefully, she climbed the stairs back to the apartment and found Dean staring at the laser printer as the paper slowly emerged. "Over-easy, as you ordered," she said as she handed him his plate. He blinked as if the smell of the food had woken him.

"Thanks," he said before ignoring her in favor of the food.

Esmee let him eat in silence for a few minutes before interrupting. "I still think it would be better if you came to the hospital with me. It will ease your worry if you see that he's fine with your own eyes." She worried they'd find that wasn't the case. She worried what it would do to Dean if he couldn't help his brother.

He answered without looking up. "I can't, Esmee. I wish I could, but I can't. Besides, the bokor's still out there."

The bokor. She knew that. She didn't need him to remind her.

In a way, Dean reminded her a little of her father even though she'd seen nothing to make her believe he was religious in any way. But both men threw themselves into their calling, everything else be damned. She still remembered as a child that the ceremonies came first before everything else, even after her mom died. So she wasn't surprised that Dean was choosing the hunt over sitting at his brother's side.

When the forged certificate finished printing, Dean set his plate aside to put the finishing touches on it. "And what do I tell the police when they inquire about my non-existent brother?" Esmee asked. She knew he'd been speaking off the cuff when he'd received the call, but he'd made things a lot more difficult for her.

He handed her the paper as he answered, "Explain that I'm just a close family friend who was at the ceremony. I was even a witness, see?" The name David Shaw was on the witness line. "Just find out what's wrong with him and set up some wards around his room, okay?"

He smiled when she nodded. She let him leave without mentioning the bad feeling she had. So far, nothing had gone according to the Winchester's plans since they'd arrived in Las Vegas. Somehow, she didn't think it was about to start happening now.

* * *

 

Dean was disappointed when he arrived at the dive motel that he and Sam had been staying at. An unmarked cop car was sitting next to a CSI van, both preventing him from recovering Sam's research as well as his clothing.

He pulled back on to the street and started to drive in circles as he tried to cobble together a plan. Dean's frustration made him hit the steering wheel when he realized that he'd gotten too used to bouncing ideas off of his brother. It was like Burkitsville all over again. Unconsciously, his hand ghosted over his cell phone as he tried to will Esmee to call him with news about Sam.

Okay, sentimentality wasn't getting him anywhere. Time to get back to the basics. Their only lead had been Galtry, who had been asking and demanding that relatives of the victims sell him their property. Sam had mentioned that it was weird that the week that Esmee's dad died, Galtry had quit his job as a paralegal at a well known law firm in town.

It wasn't much, but it was better than driving around aimlessly and counting how many opossums he could hit with his car.

At a stop light, he happened to look in the rear-view mirror. His hair was a mess and he had serious bags under his eyes. No way he was going to get to talk to anyone important at the law firm looking like this and dressed in jeans and a bloody shirt. Except he had no spare clothes and one maxed out credit card.

That was fine though. Dean thrived under these conditions. He turned the wheel and started back down the strip towards the red light district where he remembered seeing a YMCA. Always keep up the Y membership, Deano. Sometimes the local Y is the only place that won't bat an eye at how messed up you look when you ask for a free shower.

First, he had to get clean. Then, lift a wallet so he could buy a cheap suit. Then pay Mr. Galtry's former employers a visit and see if he couldn't find a solid lead on this damn bokor.

* * *

 

After Dean left, Esmee took some time to gather a few supplies before leaving for the hospital. Ordinarily, she'd say no on principle to setting wards and other protective spells, but life had been anything but ordinary since she'd returned to Las Vegas for the funeral. Growing up, she'd done everything she could to make it absolutely clear that she wouldn't become a maman, hounsi, or even a serviteur. She wanted her own life, her own choices, not one that was lived in accordance to the whims of the various loa.

Apparently the loa had ideas of their own. Zaka, Ghede's course younger brother, was probably sitting in his fields laughing his ass off at her.

Salt, candles, and Bible gathered, Esmee quickly drove across town to St. Mary's. Dean didn't have any evidence to prove that the bokor had targeted Sam, but something (or someone) told her that his suspicion was right. She'd never married her loa – had refused the ceremony when her father had begged her to do it before she left for New York. But she could still hear when Loko and the others yelled at her.

Unsurprisingly, the police were waiting for her when the nurse led her to Sam's room.

"Mrs. Winchester, my name is Detective Brass and this is Sara Sidle from our crime lab," the heavy set one greeted her.

She looked at them and then into the room. Sam is sitting on the bed in a semi-reclined state. He's staring, just staring, with no expression or indication that he's heard anything the cop has said.

"I'd really like to see my husband now," she said.

"Funny, that. I didn't know that marriages were part of the denye priye. There's not even been a marriage certificate filed with the city yet," the woman, Sara, said.

Esmee ignored Sara's implied insult of how Esmee had behaved during the Vodun ceremony to honor her father's passing. "We just hadn't had time to finish the paperwork yet. I have it with me, if you need to see it." Sara's hand immediately jumped for the document and Esmee handed it over with a small bit of dread. "Now, can I see my husband?" Brass nodded and stepped aside for her. He stopped her though when she went to close the door.

Esmee just sighed and went to Sam's bedside instead. "Sam, Sam. Samuel Winchester!" she whispered. Pinching him resulted in no response either. She'd told the brothers that everything that had happened went against her knowledge of the left-handed ways. Granted, she didn't know a lot, but it still didn't make sense.

Having confirmed that what had happened to Galtry, her father, and the others had most likely happened to Sam, Esmee turned her attention to the supplies she'd brought. She quickly sprinkled salt on the bed itself and slipped Dean's leather necklace around Sam's left wrist. She was just about to light the candles when Brass entered the room.

"Fire's a bad idea in a hospital," he said, pointing at the oxygen sign above the bed. "Now then, if you don't mind."

Esmee nodded and left the room. As soon as they were in the hallway, he stopped. "Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"What? What are you talking about? That's my husband in there sick and you want to arrest me?"

Sara walked up beside her and looked down at the certificate. "No, he's not. Granted, it's a good forgery, but you aren't married to him."

"And forgery of a legal document is still a crime," Brass said. "So we're going to go have a chat about your _husband_ at the station."

Esmee turned and let them cuff her without any more protest.

* * *

 

A sharp tug on his wrist woke Sam from his dreamless sleep. Looking around, he could see that he was still on the island, yet something felt a little different this time. The sounds, feel, and smell of the sand, water, and air were all a little bit duller. He was hungry, very hungry, but he had no clue how long it had been since he'd eaten. So far as he could tell from the sky, he'd either slept an entire twenty-four hours or…no time had passed at all.

He rubbed his left wrist. It didn't hurt; rather there was an itch that he couldn't quite locate.

Sam stood and looked around. He recalled an old man from before – Ghede. The man and the name had both seemed familiar, but now he began to wonder if it hadn't just been a dream or hallucination. Either way, he wasn't here right now and Sam had more immediate problems to take care of – hunger and thirst. He searched his pockets, but his wallet and knife were both missing. _Great, so much for catching food_, he thought. Still, an island in the middle of a lake, at least he could get some water. And he could hope that his brother found him before Montezuma's revenge set in.

Sam walked over to the edge of the island where the water ebbed up and down against the sand. He was leaning over to scoop up water to drink when a hand clutched down hard on his shoulder and pulled him away from water.

"No, no, boy! You don't want to do that," Ghede accented voice said.

Sam recovered from his backwards sprawl and stood up. "Why not? And where the hell did you come from? Why didn't I hear you?"

Ghede shook his head and stooped down to pick up his top hat. Sam assumed that it had fallen off when the man had dragged him away from the water's edge. A loud, lilting whistle sounded from the small cluster of trees at the center of the island and Ghede looked toward them with a tilted head. After a moment, he nodded and looked back at Sam. "You're good at forgetting, no? Would think that of all of them, you'd remember the most. No worries."

Ghede walked over to a large stone and sat down. When he started to twirl his cane, Sam went to join him. "What do you mean? What should I remember?"

Ghedes black lips opened wide in a smile, white teeth sparkling behind them. "That's not the way it works, boyo. Just stay away from the water lest you tempt Simba. He's still not quite forgiven us for making him give you up early."

Sam's brow furrowed as he took in the crazy talk the old man was giving him. Simba, Ghede…suddenly it clicked. Both were loa – Ghede was the loa of eroticism, but also of the crossroads of life and death. From his Introduction to World Religions class that he'd had to take his freshman year of college, Sam remembered that among other things, Ghede was the one who decided whether an ill person died or recovered.

"Ghede…the Baron Samedi," Sam said.

Ghede smirked at him and lit another cigar. "Took you long enough. And here your ma's been telling me that you were the smarter of the two."

"Mom?" Sam asked, then he shook his head. Ghede was trying to distract him. "Never mind. Why am I here? Why are _you_ here? Am I dying?"

Ghede closed his eyes and took a long drag from his cigar before puckering his mouth and blowing the smoke out. Sam's eyes followed the smoke as it formed the shapes of animals and trees that became animated. He looked back at Ghede when the man, no, the loa spoke again. "She tried to tell me you'd figure it out soon enough. No, Sammy, you aren't dead, but you aren't alive. Petro's been playing some pranks, but he saw the mark on you and had the good sense to leave things to his betters for once. So you're in between unless your brother manages to find the one behind this. I'd take care of it myself, but the bokor has been careful to hide from my sight."

"But how could he? I mean, one of you have to know…"

Ghede glared at him and Sam automatically mumbled an apology. "I don't. If others do, they aren't talking."

"Could it be because he's not really Vodun?"

Ghede's eyes widened in surprise. "Maybe, maybe. Hoodoo, but enough knowledge to harness Petro and some of his ilk. Your ma's right, boyo, you are smart."

With that, Ghede disappeared in a elaborate puff of smoke leaving Sam alone to rub his irritated wrist and look with longing at the water.

* * *

 

Esmee looked up from the tabletop when she heard the door open. "Don't I get a phone call?" she asked as Brass and Sara entered.

"In a bit. We have a lot of things we'd like to clear up first," Brass said. "Unless you want a lawyer?"

Esmee just shook her head. Better to save that option for when she needed it. In the meantime, she could learn what they knew about Sam and his condition.

"So who's David? Does he have a last name?" Sara asked. "There's no record of you having a brother."

Esmee blushed and smiled uncomfortably. "No, he's not really my brother. Just a very good friend that I've known for a long time that likes to get in the face of guys I date."

"And Samuel Winchester was one of those guys?"

Esmee shook her head. "No, Sam and David get along great."

Brass slid a photograph forward. "What about him? How did he and Sam get along?"

Esmee looked down to see Dean's face. Except it was too pale and the eyes were lifeless. Everything about it made her skin crawl. Dean had mentioned that he had a history with the cops and that was why he couldn't go to the hospital, but he'd not gone into the details. Now, Esmee wished that she'd pressed him on it a little bit more.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask Sam. Speaking of which, no one's explained what's wrong with him."

Brass and Sara shared a look. "The doctors can't tell. His tox screens are normal and the CT scan didn't show any evidence of a blow to the head. I don't suppose that you have anything that would shed light on his condition?" Sara asked.

At that point, a tap on the window caused both investigators to look away. Brass got up and left the room.

"What about Sam? How did you two meet?" Sara asked after the door closed.

Esmee fidgeted with her necklace. "A friend of a friend from New York. I called him again when I found out about my dad. It was just a little overwhelming to deal with. The next thing I know, he was here and everything was better."

"So you decided to marry him? With a fake marriage license?"

Esmee sighed. "It's Las Vegas. I was mourning, we got drunk and stupid, and I remember an Elvis dressed in robes. We woke up in bed with hangovers and that was on floor next to us."

"But you don't remember where this drive-by chapel was?"

"How many times do I have to say that I was drunk?"

"I bet David had some fun with that," Sara said with a wry smile. "I don't suppose he might have been jealous?"

Esmee was saved from answering when Brass reentered and slammed the door. "She's playing us. Not only is it a fake, but apparently it was prepared by a dead man."

"I assume you don't mean Elvis," Sara replied.

"No, not Elvis. Prints on it are a perfect match with the dead body of Dean Winchester. Who, if anyone cares, was buried six months ago in St. Louis," Brass explained.

Esmee briefly closed her eyes while clamping her mouth shut. French, English, and Spanish swear words flew through her mind and she had the distinct urge to kill Dean the next time she saw him. She still didn't understand what the hell was going on, and she really didn't like where the conversation was headed.

"You know, I think that maybe we have this all wrong," Sara said. "Maybe this David doesn't exist at all. Maybe you resurrected this Dean and are now sending your zombie to force people to kill themselves. Sam found out about it and got hurt."

Esmee shook her head. "I wasn't anywhere near St. Louis when you say this Dean died. I can give you the names of professors and friends, all of whom will tell you that I didn't leave New York during that time."

Sara shrugged. "Whose to say you'd have to leave New York? Maybe you met Dean and Sam earlier, and marked them so that you could use them when you needed."

Brass laughed. "Come on, Sidle, zombies? More likely, she and this David killed Sam's brother and then hurt him when he confronted them about it."

"We don't have any other explanation for how a dead man's fingerprints were found in a house and motel that we have no record of him ever being in," Sara responded. "Not to mention the marriage license."

"Wait a second, marked? What are you talking about?" Esmee interrupted.

Sara opened a folder and pulled out polaroids showing a well-muscled chest with faint scars. "Marks like these. They're old, I'll give you that, but they look ritualistic. I bet his brother's corpse has the same marks."

Esmee stared, transfixed. Sara was right. It was a pattern. More importantly, it suddenly explained why Sam was in the hospital instead of acting like the other victims of the bokor.

Her hand reached out and she traced the pattern. "Do you recognize it?" Brass asked. He sounded surprised.

"It's a symbol of protection. Judging from the lightness of the scars and the fashion in which it is used, it's old, very old. It would have been done when he was a child, anytime from the age of three to maybe nine if he was desirable enough," Esmee explained.

"And what does it mean?" Sara asked.

"I told you, protection," Esmee answered. "It marks him as one Simba's chosen. It means his spirit is safe as long as his body is."

Brass raised his eyebrows and looked at Sara. "Did that make any sense to you?" Sara shook her head.

Esmee pulled her hand back and looked up. "I'd like to call my lawyer now."

[Part 2](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_gen/37245.html#cutid1)


	2. Chapter 2

Dean cursed when his cell phone began to vibrate uncomfortably as he tried to parallel park. He turned off the car and then started the well-known dance of trying to grab his phone from his pants pocket without getting out of the car. He finally pulled it free and answered. "Dean-"

"David, shut up and listen," Esmee said, her tone irritated.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I saw Sam. The doctors are saying it's some type of coma, but no one knows how it happened. They're doing tests today to see if they can determine why."

"That's good. You got to give him the good luck charm, then?" Dean asked.

"I said, shut up. But yes, I did. De—David, something else is going on."

"Something else?"

"I don't have long to talk, the police are giving me a hard time. Somehow the marriage license is a fake, and worse, has prints that match Sam's brother, Dean. His brother, Dean, whose dead body was found in St. Louis after he was charged with murder."

"Shit," Dean said as he hit the steering wheel. This was why he preferred to hunt in small towns and the woods. The police were generally slow in their response or incompetent enough to not bother with fingerprints.

"They also found his prints at Galtry's house," Esmee continued.

"Look, where are you? The hospital? I've got something to do, but I'll come get you when I'm done."

"I don't think that's a good idea. You'd better call our uncle, the one that's a lawyer, for me."

"I'll do that, Esmee. Sit tight. Stu and I will have you out of there and at Sam's bedside in no time."

"Good. And when he wakes up, Sam can explain all about his dead brother," Esmee answered before the phone clicked off.

Dean winced at Esmee's tone as well as the new developments. The whole, "No, I didn't murder anyone – a skin walker stole my form and then we killed it," conversation wasn't an easy one to have with someone. But from Esmee's comments about the marriage license, he concluded that she was in police custody. So it wasn't one he had to worry about anytime soon.

Or possibly ever.

Except, his Boy Scout brother would never let him skip town if Esmee was still in custody.

One problem at a time, he reminded himself. First things first: time to go have a talk with Galtry's former boss. All he had on the guy was his name - Simon Felipe - and the info he was able to Google at the internet café across the street from the department store where he'd bought his very itchy polyester suit. Felipe was in charge of the real estate divisions of the local Wolfe and Liebowitz law firm.

Dean pulled a revolver out of the backpack on the seat beside him. The cops hadn't gotten all of his supplies and Dean had a feeling that Felipe would need a little bit of persuasion. Plan made, he got out of the car, walked across the street, and entered the building.

The key to entering a building that you have no business in is to look and act the part. That was one of the first lessons that Dad had taught him about the business. Dean cracked a smile when he remembered how his father had walked into a Mountie station in Canada and walked out with a lycanthrope in cuffs.

Dean might not be the best at charming information out of normal folk, but he could act almost any part when necessary. Especially when Sam's life was at stake.

He made it to the fourth floor and almost to Philippe's office without any problems until he reached Philippe's secretary. "Excuse me, you can't go in there. He's on a conference call and then has another appointment," the grey-haired woman shouted. Fortunately, she dropped her glasses and Dean made it to the door in the time it took her to pick them up.

He flashed a smile at her and the grey-haired, bearded man sitting next to her desk. "Don't worry, I won't be but a second. Just need to get him to sign off on a deal." He quickly opened the door and shut it behind him before she could protest again. He also locked the door and pulled a chair against it for good measure.

"What do you think you're doing?" Felipe protested from behind his desk. He held the desk phone with his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Sorry to interrupt your day, Simon, but I have business that's a little more pressing than what's on the phone," Dean said.

"I don't know who you are, but I don't have time for this." Dean crossed the room and pulled the cord out of the back of the phone before the lawyer could call for security.

"My name doesn't matter. What does is your connection to Destin Galtry and exactly why he quit last week. Oh, and why you made him commit suicide." Dean knew he was laying it on heavy, but he didn't have time for good cop/bad cop, especially when he was missing the good cop part of his routine.

Banging made him look back at the door briefly - apparently Felipe's secretary was dedicated. A flicker of movement seen from the corner of his eye caused him to draw his gun and back a few steps away just as Felipe threw a fine dust at him. Dean covered his mouth as he talked just in case.

"Well, that answers why Galtry quit, now how 'bout answering why you've made eight people kill themselves," Dean said. The door continued to bang and he heard a sharp crack as it started to give way.

"I didn't do anything, and you're an idiot if you think you'll stop him," Felipe answered. At the same time, the door behind Dean slammed open.

"Police! Put the gun down," someone said.

Felipe's eyes got wide at the arrival of the reinforcements. "No, no! I won't say anything, I promise."

"That's great, but I was really going for more of a confession vibe here," Dean remarked. He cursed when Felipe screamed as the lawyer was lifted off the ground. "Guess the bokor learned a new trick," Dean remarked when Felipe began gurgling from whatever was choking him.

Dean shot through the empty space in front of him, then quickly dropped the gun and raised his hands before the rent-a-cops and grandpa standing in the doorway got the wrong idea.

Felipe's body dropped, but he continued to choke and roll on the floor. Dean exchanged a look with grandpa. "I can help him if you'll call off Beavis and Butthead." The guy nodded and Dean ran forward. "Got a pen?" he demanded. The man held out a pen and Dean hurried to open Felipe's crushed wind pipe. Just as he completed the procedure, an invisible force pulled Felipe's body away. Felipe screamed as his arm was wrenched while he was levitated once more before falling silent when his body dropped. The unnatural angle of Felipe's neck explained everything.

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. Another lead dead and no more information to go on. Looking up, he saw the two security guards at the door with their guns still drawn and the old guy kneeling in front of him. "I think we need to talk," the guy said.

Dean decided right then that no matter what happened, he'd never return to Las Vegas if he could just manage to get out of the town with his brother safe and whole.

 

It's a sunny day and Dean's enjoying just being a kid. It had been tough ever since Dad had decided to leave Lawrence, but Dean understood the need to catch the thing that had killed his mother. Still, every once in a while, it was nice to forget the darkness and all that it hid.

Dean yelled down to where his four-year old brother was making sand castles on the river bank under the watchful eye of their baby-sitter. "Hey Sam, watch this!" With that, he swung out from the rock bluff on the rope and executed a perfect cannon ball into the river below. Some of the neighborhood kids proceeded to dunk him a couple of times after he surfaced. After delivering some dunks of his own, he looked back towards his brother.

Except, no one was there. The baby-sitter was running up and down the river bank screaming Sam's name and several other adults were helping her.

Swimming against the current to where he'd last seen his brother, Dean wondered how he'd tell Dad.

 

Dean wished he could pace, but the metal cuff around his wrist attached him to the table. Resigned, he lounged back in his chair while trying to not think about how time was slipping away. How it might not be time that they had before the bokor struck again. How Sammy might not have any time to waste.

The reflective window and drab walls slowly start to eat away at his reserve. The claustrophobia from when he was kid in too many one room motels babysitting his brother for days on end starts to ratchet up. Except now he doesn't have Sammy to entertain to keep restlessness away. Instead, he can only wait and hope that it won't be for too long.

Hang on, Sammy, just hang on.

Dean was surprised when the two cops entered. Well, cop and a female CSI, he corrected upon receiving the proper introductions. "What happened to the old guy, Grissom?" he asked.

The cop, Brass, looked at the woman, Sara. "He's busy with some evidence right now," she answered.

Dean snorted. "I bet. The supernatural tends to send you science types screaming for the hills."

"Supernatural, that's one way to put it," Brass said. "I do have one burning question – how does it feel to come back from the dead?"

He'd never live St. Louis down. It really was too bad he didn't get a chance to torch the bastard. Of course, then, he'd probably still have APBs out with his face on them. "I wouldn't know. I haven't died lately."

"The families of your victims will be glad to hear that. I'm sure they're looking forward to seeing justice done. But out of curiosity, this body," Brass said as he slid out a photograph of the dead skin walker, "that looks like you, even has matching finger prints and dental records, it's what? Your twin? What did he do to piss you off?"

"Oh I don't know, he killed at least three people and then tried to kill my little brother. That enough of a reason for you?"

"I think we're getting distracted," Sara interrupted. "Would you tell us why you were at Felipe's law office today?"

He bit his tongue before he cursed them both out for stupid questions. "Mind telling me how my brother is doing?" Dean asked, forcing a grin onto his face.

Brass made a note even as he replied, "Awful concerned there. Tell us what you did to the poor kid and we'll call the docs before you have another murder charge added to your rap."

Dean felt the rage begin to build as he fantasized about showing the cop a thing or two about murder. "I'm not saying another word till Grissom gets in here. And if that doesn't happen, I want my lawyer, Esmee Lacroix, immediately."

Brass shrugged and left the room. Sara lingered for a moment though. "I called just before. They say he's hanging in, but there's been no change in his condition."

Every muscle relaxed just a little at the good news. It wasn't much, but for now, it was enough.

Still, it seemed like an eternity passed before the door of the interrogation room opened to reveal Grissom, the old man from the law office. Well, not old, Dean recognized that. But grey enough to look a decade or so older than his Dad, so the old tag stuck. Grissom didn't enter alone, he was accompanied by tall, broad-shouldered guy with an open face that looked like he'd fit in very well down south somewhere. Hairstyle for shit, almost reminded Dean of Sam's mop when the kid went a few extra weeks without getting it cut.

"This is Nick Stokes – he's handling the trace evidence from your car. Would you like to tell us now what you and your brother were doing at Galtry's house?" Grissom asked. "We have your prints as well as blood from the crime scene."

That damned window. Dad always had lectured him about taking better precautions when he went into people's homes during hunts. But, it never seemed to be worth the time it took. Generally, the person was dead and the police already gone, or they were cooperating with Dean on some level. And it was never too long before he moved on to the next town anyway.

Still, he knew that if he explained about Galtry, he'd lose whatever ground he'd gained with Grissom so far. The man didn't strike Dean as one who believed easily. "My brother, how's he doing?"

Grissom and Stokes exchanged a long glance before Grissom shrugged. Stokes leaned forward, "Funny you should ask. About the same time you were being processed, your brother got up and walked out of the hospital."

Dean exhaled as if hit. Apparently he'd gotten the bokor's attention. Too damn bad he was locked up in here without any leads while Sammy was…Dean closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. Dad had learned the ins and outs of hunting on the job. There had been plenty of snafus during the training, but he'd passed on everything he'd learned about it to Dean and Sam.

Rule number one: Don't get arrested.

Rule number two: If you get arrested, don't waste your breath trying to get the cops to believe a paranormal story. If necessary, lie and blame it on a human. Whatever it takes to get out and get back to the hunt.

Rule number three: Never attempt to convince a scientist about something supernatural.

Dean was about to break all three rules in one sitting. Silently, he hoped that what Grissom had witnessed this morning would be enough to persuade the man to ignore logic and listen to Dean.

Shuffling papers pulled his attention back to the two men in the room. "Okay, if you don't want to talk about your brother, why don't we talk about the medieval arsenal we found in your trunk?" Stokes asked.

 

Dean ignored him and looked at Grissom. "What, no questions about this morning?"

"If you prefer to start there," Grissom waved his hand, giving Dean permission to elaborate.

Dean smirked. "I dunno, I'd kind of like to see what you think before I go and alter your worldview."

Grissom's jaw worked like he was grinding his last tooth and he locked Dean with a glare. "Eye witness accounts are extremely unreliable. I prefer to trust the evidence."

Dean raised his eyebrows. This should be good.

"According to the coroner, Simon Felipe died as a result of a broken neck. Prior to death, his windpipe was crushed. Both injuries should have resulted in bruising that would yield details about the size and shape of the perpetrator's hands, but none were found," Grissom stated.

"Not to mention the fact that you saw me standing a good four feet away from the vic when the windpipe was crushed…though I have to admit, there is some poetic justice in taking out a lawyer like that," Dean said. "And well, we both felt when the spirit pulled him away from us."

"Whoa, wait a second," Stokes interrupted. "Spirit?"

"Well, it was that or some kind of invisible creature. But since it didn't seem fond of rock salt, I'm going with spirit. Whether it was a ghost or something more, I can't say," Dean said.

"That explains the modified buckshot in his car then," Stokes said. "Sara and I couldn't figure out the rock salt. Of course, it still could have been used for torture."

Dean rubbed his chest, remembering the pain when Sam shot him at the asylum. "Yeah, it hurts like a bitch. But only effective against ghosts and spirits."

"So the knives, kerosene, and other assorted instruments from medieval times?" Stokes asked.

"Usually salt just slows things down. Other things are required to kill them."

"And what did you come to Las Vegas to kill, Mr. Winchester?" Grissom asked.

Not yet, something told Dean. They weren't quite ready to hear the truth. "In a second. Did you find any evidence on my brother?"

Grissom stared at him for a second before opening a manila folder and reading the evidence off of a form. "Tox screens are clean and there's no evidence of head trauma. Everything points to your brother being perfectly healthy, but he's completely unresponsive to any form of stimuli. We analyzed his clothes and found a powder that was determined to be a mixture of several exotic herbs not native to Arizona as well as hydroxyapatite."

"Hydroxy-what-ite?"

"Calcium and phosphorus. In concentrations that indicate it was derived from bone," Grissom explained.

"Bone dust, herbs and a comatose man. Ringing any bells for anyone?"

"Zombies," Grissom answered with a complete poker face.

Stokes's face shouted complete disbelief that was echoed by his voice. "You've got to be kidding me? You want us to believe your brother has been turned into a zombie?"

Dean shrugged. "Depends on your definition. Granted, it's not the typical process that one would see with Vodun, but I'm starting to suspect this guy isn't a bokor with a strong sense of tradition."

"Your suspicion is impossible to prove," Grissom said.

"I don't know. It's happened eight times in the past couple of months, so I'm inclined to be convinced."

"Eight times? What are you talking about?" Stokes asked.

"That's what I was doing at Galtry's house. A friend had overheard him badgering guests at a funeral about selling properties. They told us and we suspected he was behind the recent suicides. The bokor got to him before I did and there wasn't anything left to question. And when I left the house, you guys had my brother trussed up."

Stokes just shook his head. "You have to know how crazy this story sounds."

Dean sat back, satisfied. "That's why I would only tell you," he said to Grissom. "You can try to deny what you saw this morning, but I know you can't explain it. And you won't be able to prove it from your evidence. But I can help you stop it before it hurts anyone else."

 

The days after Sammy disappeared were equal parts terrifying and unending. The cops came; Dad couldn't stop that from happening. Too many people saw. People tried to talk about the possibilities above him, but Dean heard the whispers.

"Pedophile."

"Every hour counts."

"Drowning."

Each mundane horror seemed unreal to Dean. After everything, to have a member of his family die like that…impossible. Dean had gotten used to the idea of not ever having a body to bury if the worst were to happen, but those were in circumstances where there wasn't anything left.

Two days after it happened, the river was dredged. Nothing was found.

The witnesses saved Dean and his dad from the uncomfortable questions. There's no way that anyone could blame them for this tragedy. But Dean did blame himself all the same. And he could tell that his dad did to.

After that, Dad left. Dean stalked the apartment, terrified to defy his father's orders, but scared to death that if he only stepped outside and went looking, he'd find Sam safe and sound with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Dad came back in the early mornings and checked on Dean. Made sure there was food in the fridge before ruffling Dean's hair and leaving again without saying a word. It went on for a week and then one night, he didn't come back alone.

He came back with a black guy in a crazy Hawaiin shirt and carrying Sammy in his arms. All three were drenched with water and Sam's chest was a mess of nasty welts. Dean immediately jumped up and retrieved the first aid kit and then didn't let go of Sammy's hand while Dad patched him up.

Dean didn't let go of Sammy's hand for almost a week.

It was the first week since Mom died that Dad didn't leave them alone.

 

 

Esmee could hear them arguing through the door. She was heartened by the fact that Dean was near the door. If he really was a murderer, there'd be no way they'd let him this close to her.

Still, it was a shock when he walked through the door dressed in orange coveralls, but unshackled and unescorted.

"They're listening with open minds," he said with a wry grin before she could get a word out. She spared a second to look at the one-way mirror. Dean ran his hands through his hair and dropped into the chair at the table across from her. "I'm getting really sick of this. Another lead up and died right in front of my face. And it gets worse."

She reached across the table and took his hand when he fell silent. It scared her when she realized he was trembling, but she waited for him to continue. "He walked out of the hospital."

"Sam? How, is that possible?" she asked when Dean nodded.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. The sheets got changed and the protective circle was disrupted. Something. And I don't have a single fucking clue as to where to look for him."

Her eyes went back to the window briefly before focusing entirely on him. "Well, I'm not in a position to help with an escape and I forgot to pack my crystal ball."

He smiled tiredly at the joke. "I know…But they said that you recognized a pattern on Sam's chest. That it meant that he was safe?"

"Yes. But I'm sure you know all about it. You're father would have explained it at least to him. And what to expect."

At the mention of his father, Dean's face shuttered again into the unreadable expression that he'd worn for most of the time she'd known him. "Humor me and pretend I haven't heard a thing about it," he said.

His attitude confused her. For all that Esmee wanted to control her own life, she'd seen the work of the loa often enough to understand that it was all very real. "Okay. It's Simba's mark – ringing any bells yet?" He motioned for her to continue. She shrugged. "Simba's the loa of springs and-"

Dean raised his hands, interrupting, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know all that. And he takes little kids to serve him for a couple of years."

Esmee crossed her arms and sat back. "I thought you wanted me to explain this?"

"Look, I'm sorry, I just don't have time for a theology lesson right now."

"When returned, the children are gifted with second sight as recompense for their time. Additionally, Simba extends his protection. The Petro spirits don't bother his chosen, at least not lightly."

Dean looked at his hands and sighed deeply. "So he's safe then?"

Esmee shrugged. "For a given value of safe. But if his body dies, so will he."

"Great, just great." Dean stood up roughly and started to pace. "Now his body's missing, probably thanks to this god damned bokor, and I have no clue where to find either one."

 

Sam shivered in the night air. The itching of his arm had dissipated into a burning pain that lanced from his arm down through his chest and was accompanied by a wicked fever. He desperately wanted to go to the edge of the lake to quench his thirst, but even if he had the strength, Ghede held him in place with a grip that was surprisingly strong for such a skinny, old guy.

As if the pain and the fever and overeager nursemaid weren't enough, the dreams were worse. And incessant.

Jess and Mom on the ceiling, on fire. Dean, weak, and with blue lips, hooked up to a ventilator. Dad ripped to shreds by a shadow. Fire everywhere, no escape.

Each time, Ghede woke him with a violent shake and continued to tell him to hang on. That it would be over soon, that he'd be home soon. One way or the other.

And still, the images continued unabated.

Demons leaping from mirrors. Dean, dead on a hook. Sam, bound and gagged, forced to watch as his brother and father die in flames. A smiling Dean lighting his own arm on fire. The Impala exploding as it went over a cliff.

"Legba, I don't know what your plan is, but you better hurry it up. He's not pretty enough for me to babysit for eternity and I don't swing that way," Ghede's voice yelled. Sam struggled to open his eyes again, but was only greeted with inky blackness.

 

Dean paced Esmee's interrogation room angrily. He couldn't believe that he'd never put the pieces together on his own or asked Dad about the time that Sam was gone. But he'd been too relieved that Sam had been returned. Too glad that he hadn't died or worse on his watch. Too busy making sure that Sam was safe for the rest of his childhood, regardless of whether the kid was happy or not.

It explained why Max only shared Sam's telekinesis. Dean couldn't help but wonder exactly what Dad had done to get Sam back. He was willing to bet that five days definitely was not the normal time of service for Simba.

Finally, he turned back to Esmee. "There's only one way. You'll have to ask him."

"Excuse me?"

"You said Simba's protecting Sam. If that's the case, he knows where he is. Ask him."

Esmee let out a sound of indignation that Dean might find cute under other circumstances. "Even if I could summon him on command, it wouldn't work here. Not exactly any bodies of water, nor anything to use for a ceremony."

"Come on, Esmee, this is the only way."

"I can't. I'm not my father."

"I know that, damn it," Dean said. "But I don't have time to go servitor shopping right now. You've lived this your whole life. You know what to do." He closed his eyes and then looked at her, pleadingly. "It's Sam's only hope."

She stared back for what seemed an eternity before nodding.

Dean sat down so as to not distract her and waited.

And waited.

He resisted the urge to fidget, to look at his watch, to pace. He buried his anger and confusion at Dad and focused instead on Sam. Sam was what mattered. Beyond the calling of this crazy life and everything he did to pass the time, Sam had always been his charge. He'd failed his brother more than once, but he'd be damned if he ever did again.

He wasn't sure when it happened, but Esmee's posture had changed slightly. She was bent somewhat as if with age and her face exuded a wisdom that hadn't been present before. "Esmee?" he asked. She just smiled at him, but it was a smile he'd never seen from her or for that matter, any other woman before.

"Always in a rush, aren't you, young one?" Esmee said, except it wasn't Esmee's voice. It was higher, with a lyrical quality and an accent that Dean couldn't place. "Headfirst and damned the consequences unless ordered otherwise. But never questioning. You could learn a few things from your brother."

"Yeah, I'll do that as soon as I find him. Do you know where he is?"

"Demanding too." Esmee's head tilted as if listening to something. "She shouldn't be doing this. She hasn't made her choice yet. She needs time before she commits to her calling."

Her comments confused Dean, but he ignored them. "I'm sorry. But I can't help my brother if I can't find him."

"The Bizango is being very contrary. He's upset the balance and refuses to listen to Legba. Thinks he's found a way around the rules. Forgets that the left and right must work together."

"Sam," Dean reminded her.

Esmee's eyes flashed. "Impertinent too. But right. Time is waning, night approaches, and Ghede's grip weakens. Soon the Baron will have no choice but to point your brother down the path. Find the place of death for that which does not live. Your brother and your enemy will meet at the point in between."

"Thank you," Dean said as he rose to leave.

"Wait," Esmee's altered voice echoed off the walls. "This will not be your fight. If you arrive in time, Simba will restore the balance." With that, Esmee collapsed onto the table. Seconds later, several people entered and rushed to see to her.

Grissom stood to the side. "Well?"

"I need a map," Dean said. "And my stuff."

 

"Wait a second, we're going on the word of a woman you said was possessed?" Brass asked. "I think you all need to have your heads examined."

Dean tried to remember that yelling at the cop wasn't going to help Sam. Neither Brass or Grissom would agree to let Dean go alone, but at least Grissom was willing to give Dean the benefit of the doubt about what gear to take. Grissom had even reluctantly agreed to let them take the Impala so long as Dean let him drive it.

"I asked her to talk to the loa and they decided to talk back. Unless you have a better lead?" Dean asked.

"I'm still not convinced that there's any need to run off. There's nothing to say your brother didn't wake up and just decide he didn't want to hang around with a murderer anymore."

"Enough," Grissom said.

"Just out of curiosity, which one was it that talked to you?" Sara asked.

"Ayezan, I think," Dean answered.

"That would explain why she kept correcting your manners," Grissom said.

"And exactly why are we going to this junkyard?" Brass asked.

Dean winced when Grissom ground the Impala's gears when the light changed. "She said that he was at the place of death for that which doesn't live. I figure a junkyard full of dead cars qualifies. And this one is close to the center of where the murders –"

"Suicides," Brass interrupts.

"-have occurred," Dean finished without missing a beat.

"What did she mean when she said that Simba will restore the balance?" Grissom asked.

Dean shrugged. "I never paid much attention to the Vodun lore outside of zombies and bokor."

"Great, just great," Brass said. "I still say that we should be going in with more backup and without him."

The car fell silent after that. It hadn't been easy for Dean to convince them that he had to go to investigate the junkyard. If not for reminding Grissom about the events that morning, he doubted that he'd be here at all. As it was, the prospect of being attacked by invisible entities that could break necks convinced Grissom that it would be good to take along someone who knew a little bit more about the occult than he or the rest of his crime scene investigators.

Finally, the car pulled up to the abandoned junkyard. A dead place for dead things. He hoped he'd picked right when he saw it on the map.

Dean ignored the look Brass gave him when he went to the trunk and pulled out the guns. "Trust me, if this guy can control spirits, you're going to want some rock salt," Dean told him.

Dean paused when he felt a wave of dizziness. Weird. But he didn't have time to worry about it. Instead, he grabbed the last gun and small canister of kerosene. Just in case.

 

Wake up, the voice said. Sam came to on hot sand surrounded by darkness. It took only a second to realize that the air was chilly, but dry. And that there was an absence of the sound of water.

Looking down, he realized he was wearing a hospital gown. "Okay…I'm ready to leave the Twilight Zone," he said out loud.

He tried to jump up when he heard laughter ring out, but he stumbled from stiffness. "Not to worry, you won't be here long," a cruel voice said. A white guy with blood-shot eyes and oily hair stood over him with an expression that could only be classed as hungry. He was holding a knife covered in blood and started advancing.

Sam scrabbled backwards as he looked desperately for a weapon. Shattered glass and bent metal frames offered no protection from the man in front of him.

"Freeze, police!" someone shouted.

Sam didn't think he'd ever been happier to see the cops in his life.

Disappointment and fear replaced relief when he saw the cop go flying through the air and land on top of a rusted yellow bus. Shots rang out and still the guy with the knife advanced.

Sam made it to his feet and started to run, but he slammed into a body and fell. The smell of kerosene made him cough as he rolled off…of his brother. "Dean!"

Dean jumped to his feet, but didn't reply. Sam rubbed his eyes and looked at his brother again. Something was off. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something in Dean's expression lacked a … Dean-ness.

"You're a fool, Ogoun," the guy with the knife said.

Dean shook his head. "You should have listened to the warnings, couyon," Dean said, his voice deeper and raspier than normal. Sam saw Dean pull out his lighter, but didn't have time to do or say anything before Dean lit his own arm on fire. Hands pulled Sam away from his brother even as he cried out.

Dean's arm moved forward as if throwing a knife and an arc of flame went from his hand toward to man with the knife. The guy started chanting and a wall of black smoke collided with the flame and smothered it.

But something was happening behind the knife-wielding bokor. The air was fuzzy and thick with smoke, but it looked like things were moving.

Sam looked at the woman holding him. "Is there anyone else in here?" When she nodded, he cursed. "Tell them to get out now."

As she grabbed her radio, he turned back to his brother. "Dean!" Dean didn't turn or acknowledge him at all and Sam felt the woman tug at his arm. "I can't leave him."

"You have to. He told me to tell you he'd explain, but right now we have to get out of here."

Sam looked back, past the battle of smoke and fire. The ground and metal seemed to dance and move in a trick of heat, but the feeling of electricity in the air told Sam that the woman was right. He shook his head and tried to pull his arm away, but she tightened her grip. Sam heard a gun cock and looked back at her. "Your brother said I could shoot you in the leg if that's what it took to get you away from here," she said. He can see the determination in her face and the gun pointed at his leg.

Reluctantly, he let her lead him to the entrance where he was surprised to find see the Impala. They were soon joined by the cop he'd seen thrown earlier and a bearded guy.

"Backup's on the way," the cop said.

Looking back at the junkyard, Sam could see a column of smoke rising from the center. Minutes later, all four of them winced and covered their ears as an inhuman scream rang through the night.

Then the night lit up as an explosion of fire leapt towards the sky.

 

Esmee smiled when she saw them at the restaurant's entrance. "You made it! I'm glad," she said as she embraced them both. Expertly, she scanned the busy dining room and found an open table. "Maria, watch the front please," she asked before leading the two CSIs through the crowded room.

"I received a message that tonight was the last time that the famed LaCroix gumbo would be available in Las Vegas," Grissom mentioned as she seated them.

Esmee shrugged and gave a nervous smile. "I'm passing the restaurant to Papa's head chef, but the gumbo, it's been in our family for over a hundred years."

"So you're going back to New York?" Sara asked.

Esmee nodded. "I still have another semester of law school to finish. And it's always felt like more of a home than Vegas." Esmee signaled to a waiter and stood. "I'll have two orders of gumbo to you."

Grissom put a hand on her arm to stop her. "Before you leave, I was wondering if you could answer something."

Esmee sat back down. She could read his question on his face. "The bokor?"

Grissom nodded. "There wasn't enough left to identify him."

Esmee shrugged. "I honestly don't know his name. I talked to Dean before he left, and he doesn't think that the man was a part of our community. But he doesn't remember enough from when Ogoun rode him to help me identify him one way or the other."

"Surely you have some idea as to his motive?" Sara asked.

"Felipe's office was purchasing properties within a five square block area of here. Sam found some documents online that suggest they were planning a casino for the area, but there were quite a few holdouts," Esmee explained.

"And the suicides that Mr. Winchester said were involved with the case?" Grissom asked.

"Two signed over their properties to Felipe the day before their death. Destin Galtry pressured the families of the rest to sell."

"But something, the bokor or someone, killed Felipe," Sara pointed.

"When we call the loa for ceremonies, they must be fed. The Petro loa are no different from the Rada loa like Ghede and Ogoun. The Rada can control themselves when called in times of great need. But the Petro can often be demanding and uncompromising when they exact payment," Esmee explained. "I don't know for sure that that's what happened., but-"

"It's better than believing there was someone else behind what the bokor was doing," Grissom finished.

Esmee nodded. "Exactly. Now then, I'll go and get that gumbo for you."

 

Dean kept sneaking glances over at Sam during the drive out of Las Vegas. Sam's uncharacteristic quietness since the events last night bothered him. As much as he complained about Sam's motor mouth and need to talk about feelings, Sam's banter was the one constant in his life that indicated everything was going to be okay. From baby gurgles to annoying questions, if Sam was talking, all was right with the world.

So Dean breathed a sigh of relief when Sam spoke sometime after they passed the Arizona-Nevada boder. "So how does it feel to be possessed by warrior god?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Get bent," he told his brother.

Sam laughed and Dean relaxed back into the driver's seat a little farther. "Really, how did you get LVPD to just let us go?"

Dean shrugged and missed being able to shrink down into his leather jacket. The raid on the junkyard had played hell on his wardrobe, but it was going to be a while before he could replace it since Grissom had refused to return his scammed credit cards. And IDs. "Something to the effect of it was going to be more paperwork to explain how I survived lighting myself on fire and the subsequent fireball than blaming the entire thing on a mobile meth lab." Sam grinned and looked away from him. "So…do you remember anything from your long sleep?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't turn back to look at him "Not much. Someone telling me to hang on, a lake, and being cold," he said, head hunching down into his shoulders some.

"Huh," Dean grunted in acknowledgement. He itched to ask about the pattern of scars that Esmee had identified as Simba's mark, but he held his tongue. Sam would have told him if Dad had ever mentioned its significance and well, if Dad hadn't brought it up, Dean figured there was probably a reason.

"Whaddya say we go find ourselves a good old fashioned haunted house?" Sam asked.

Dean smiled and reached out to turn up the radio. "Sounds like a damn good plan."

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:  
> Couyon - idiot  
> Hougan – Vodun priest  
> Servitor – Assistants to hougan. Generally initiated into many of the Vodun mysteries.  
> Bokor – practitioner of the Left-handed ways of Vodun  
> Hoodoo -- Hoodoo and Voodoo are often mistaken for one another, but although some believe that the terms may have a common etymology, the latter probably did not influence the former to any great degree. The terms actually refer to different beliefs and practices and, despite what many people assert, there are virtually no elements of Haitian Vodou worship in American hoodoo.
> 
> Short descriptions of the loa. More info can be found at the links for those interested. http://www.hartford-hwp.com/archives/43a/126.html, http://www.webster.edu/~corbetre/haiti/voodoo/biglist.htm
> 
> Ghede: Ghede is an awesome figure in black, controlling the eternal crossroad which everyone must someday pass over--the crossing from life to death. His symbol is the cross upon a tomb. Ghede is to the underworld or afterlife what Legba is to life--he who controls access. As keeper of the cemetery he has intimate contact with the dead. He knows what their plans were, what's going on in families, what the connections of things are, and is quite generous with his information. Even when he is clowning or performing his erotic antics, if one can pull him aside and ask him a serious question he will give a serious and reliable answer. Another of Ghede's great powers is as the protector of children. He does not like to see children die. They need a full life.  
> Simba: He is the guardian of the fountains and marshes and cannot live without the freshness of water. His Voodoo rituals are held near springs. He is a knowledgeable loa because he spends a lot of time learning about the nature of illnesses of supernatural origin and how to treat them. He lives in springs and rivers. Children who go to fetch water at springs run the risk--particularly if they are fair-skinned--of being kidnapped to work for him under the water for a few years, gifting them with second sight for their trouble.  
> Ayezan: (Aizan, Ayizan) This is the Legba's wife. She protects the markets, public places, doors, and barriers, and has a deep knowledge of the intricacies of the spirit world. Selects and instructs certain novice houngans. When feeding her or her husband, a black or white goat or russet colored ox is offered up. Her favorite tree is the palm tree. Ayezan is symbolized by mounds of earth sprinkled with oil and surrounded by fringes of palm. Ayezan is Dahomean in origin and represented by an old woman in personification. She is one of the oldest gods and is therefore entitled to first offerings at services. She often mounts people only after her husband appears at the scene. Her mounts are never severe; therefore, she can sometimes take quite a while to spot.  
> She is the mate of Loco (Loko). As a Mambo, Ayezan is reputed to have many children (devotees); she cares for her children greatly; she has a good, loving heart. She punishes those who have made mistakes not because she is a sadistic woman but to correct their behavior in the future. She will punish those adults taking advantage of the young, the rich of the poor, the strong of the weak and the husband of the wife. She is believed to have the ability to purify her surroundings and to exorcise malevolent spirits from her devotees.  
> Ogoun: Ogoun is the traditional warrior figure in Dahomehan religion. He is quite similar to the spirit Zeus in Greek religion/mythology. As such Ogoun is mighty, powerful, triumphal. His possessions can sometimes be violent. Those mounted by him are known to wash their hands in flaming rum without suffering from it later.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: This story is not meant to show any disrespect to the practice of Vodun. Although I did do research for this story, I have taken creative license with the manifestation of zombies and the use of the Loa.


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